Knox is in the garage when I return, forearms streaked with grease, bent over an engine block that looks older than both of us combined. He doesn't look up when I enter, but I feel his awareness through the bond—the way his focus sharpens and narrows and centers on me like I'm the only thing in the room worth noticing.
"Got the job?"
"How did you—" I stop myself. The bond. Of course.
"You feel happy." He straightens, wiping his hands on a rag, and his dark eyes find mine. "Different than your usual happy. More settled."
"I start Monday." I cross the garage and slide my arms around his waist, not caring about the grease or the oil stains. "Monster kids and human kids together."
His chest rumbles with satisfaction, the sound vibrating through me. "My mate, shaping young minds."
He grins—that rare expression that transforms his whole face—and dips his head to claim my mouth.
A few days later, I find Knox in his office with a white envelope already open, his expression carved from granite. Through the bond I feel the turmoil churning inside him—guilt and anger and grief twisted together in a knot I can't begin to untangle.
"Knox?"
He doesn't look up. "Another summons from the clans. My father's is weakening." His jaw tightens. "They're getting more insistent."
I close the door behind me and cross to his side, settling into the chair beside his desk.
He sets the paper down. "They want me to come home. To see him before—" His jaw works. "He wants to apologize."
The word lands between us, heavy with history I'm only beginning to understand. Prince Kragnar, heir to a warlord who choked his own son for refusing an arranged marriage. A man who disowned Knox for wanting to choose his own life.
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing changes." Knox's eyes find mine, dark and certain. "I'm not leaving you."
The bond pulses with his conviction—no hesitation, no doubt, no second-guessing. Whatever the orc clans want, whatever his dying father demands, Knox has made his choice. I can feel it thrumming through the connection between us, solid as stone.
"I know." I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath my fingertips.
"How do you know?"
I smile. "I can feel it."
His hand covers mine and holds it there, over his heart, while something shifts between us—deepens, settles, locks into place like a key turning in a lock.
Colt's daughter appears at the clubhouse a few days later, trailing behind her father while he talks business with Knox.
Lily Rivers is twelve years old with her father's sharp eyes and a paperback clutched to her chest like armor. She hovers near the door while Colt talks business with Knox, her gaze darting around the room with wary intelligence, and I recognize that posture immediately. That guardedness. The careful way she makes herself small, like she's learned that taking up too much space invites attention she doesn't want.
"What are you reading?"
She startles at my voice, then straightens, her chin lifting. "The Secret Garden."
"That's one of my favorites." I settle onto the couch and leave space beside me—an invitation. "Have you gotten to the part with the robin yet?"
Lily inches closer, curiosity winning over caution. "The robin's my favorite character."
"Mine too."
We talk for twenty minutes about books and gardens and the way stories can transport you somewhere better when the realworld gets too heavy. Lily's wariness gives way to enthusiasm as she describes her favorite authors, the reading nook she's building in her bedroom with blankets and fairy lights, the stack of books on her nightstand that never seems to shrink no matter how fast she reads.
Through the bond, I feel Knox watching us.
I glance up and catch his expression—something raw and unguarded in his eyes that makes my chest ache. Longing. Hope. Fear. All of it tangled together in a way that tells me exactly what he's thinking without him saying a word.
